It's Thursday night, aka college night, aka the New Friday. Josh (Ana, Ashley) and I just got back from the Olive Garden. Yes, we got high and went to the Olive Garden. We waited 25 minutes amongst the riffraff of tourists and yuppy men courting poofy haired women at the bar ($12 a cocktail) and unimaginably obese women with slobbery jowls practically brought to tears by the thought of their $15 heaping plate of fettucini alfredo.
The breadsticks are what made the trek to 6th and 23rd worth it. (Josh's note: We took a cab there.) A perfect combination of salt and garlic, butter and warm, doughy bread. I kind of forgot how unsalady the salads are though. I stopped eating iceburg lettuce in middle school; Olive Garden has yet to stop serving it.
One bite of my portobello ravioli made me forget I was anywhere but the Italian countryside. Okay, not really, but it was better than the whole wheat pasta with Prego I eat at home. And those breadsticks...
The funny part is that even the people who work at Olive Garden hate Olive Garden. Maybe even more than the normal person. Upon asking how many O.G.'s there are in Manhattan, our waiter responded, "Two. Two too many." He looked like Thom Yorke. He knew we were stoned.
Our meal was $65 for four people. Mmm, maybe excessive when you consider we live across from La Esquina and down the street from various other uppity 5 star restaurants.
So goodbye to you, dear Olive Garden. You served me well in the suburbs, for celebrating good report cards and Aunts and Uncles' depressing fifty-something birthdays. But I bid you adieu, fair Olive Garden. Even the breadsticks will never again lure me back into your poorly lit, understaffed, fake Tuscan decorated hallowed halls.